Bleach
by RawrrrGrimm
Summary: Ichigo/Renji. Rated M for language.  "...raw, jagged ribbons of flesh, dyed red with Ichigo's blood covered the delicate bone structure. What little fleshy tissue remained on his hands had puckered and blistered over..."


_**Note: I neither profit nor want any profit from my stories. Tite Kubo is the boss and I merely bow humbly at his creative abilities.**_

This is AU. The characters are merely used because...well, I wrote this before and I just switched names. Originally Ichigo was a chick named Valerie.

I'm TRYING to be a beta, not an author. So this is up here for word count, that's all. If you like it, that's fantastic. If you hate it, well I'm not bloody surprised, to say the least. Sorry there's no sex. I'm not really a smut writer. I read it and like it, but I honestly can't write it myself.

_**Enjoy. Leave a review if you wish. I'd actually like to hear if I suck or rock. **_

* * *

><p><em><strong>Bleach<strong>_

The heavy, choking scent of bleach and lemon disinfectant assaulted Renji the moment he opened the front door. Bringing his sleeve to his nose to avoid the smell threatening to force his lunch right from his stomach, he moved about the house searching for his fiancé. Eyes beginning to water from the crushing blend of bleach and lemon—a noxious gas in its own right—he made his way toward the back of the house hoping to find Ichigo in the kitchen where he typically spent his time. This new, clinical smell had his teeth on edge and body rigid with irritation. _What the hell has he been doing? This place reeks like a thousand hospitals_.

Each step he took toward his destination brought with it the ever-increasing stench of bleach until finally he reached the swinging kitchen door, kicking it open to find Ichigo hunched over the porcelain sink. His small, delicate frame swayed back and forth, shoulder blades twitching with effort as his hands plunged into the sink filled with what he could only assume was pure bleach, given the sharp smell in the room.

Renji moved forward slowly, watching as Ichigo's arms shook erratically and his lips quivered with each mumbled word. Finally coming within earshot he could make out only one word, repeated in mantra-esque meter, "Clean, Clean, Clean…"

* * *

><p>The sharp warning cry of the six o'clock train stung little Ichigo's ears as he walked hand in hand with his mother along the rain-soaked path. The train was still far away to the West, the sound carrying with the warm spring air. The air was still tinged with the scent of rain and spark of electricity from the thunderstorm that had crashed over the little town of West Haven not ten minutes ago. His skin prickled from the latent energy flowing through the air, raising the soft hairs of his bare legs as he skipped along beside his mom toward home. The smell of their left-over dinner wafting from the take-home box made his stomach clench in hunger once more, beginning to salivate at the mere memory of the creamy sauce and delicate ravioli bursting with mushrooms of all kinds. Tonight had been the best dinner he had ever had, to be made even sweeter by the large slab of chocolate cake his mother had agreed to buy at the bakery on the way home; an additional reward for Ichigo's hard work on the school play.<p>

Dusk had crept upon them slowly, dyeing the night sky in pale blues and purples as the two turned down the familiar side street that ran past the train station. Ichigo could hear the methodical hum of the train rushing along the tracks towards them and released his mother's hand in anticipation of the loud whistle, bringing them up to his own ears in attempt to muffle the sound he knew would come.

A large body smashing into him had Ichigo turning from the tracks to see who had hit him, only to see his mother slumped over their bags of dinner and desert, that gaudy yellow purse usually hanging from her right shoulder suddenly missing. His mother's white cardigan however, sported a new addition of what looked to Ichigo like deep red ink, but he knew better. Ichigo snapped his hands down from his ears and fell to his knees as he saw his mother fall to the side. Usually red-painted lips turned up in a toothy smile were slack as red instead continued to coat his mother's chest. Without thinking Ichigo pressed his hands to the darkest splotch of scarlet, frantically looking around for help only to find they were alone in the darkened alleyway.

The six o'clock train whistle finally shrieked its arrival, covering a little boy's piercing cry.

* * *

><p>Perfection personified, Ichigo Kurosaki never made a mistake in the kitchen. No surface within his culinary domain was anything short of flawless; counters were maintained to immaculate excellence, the unscathed surfaces shone as if they had come straight off the showroom floor, despite their four years of daily use. Ichigo, being a tad eccentric and a bit of a slob anywhere but the kitchen, kept his unusual, obsessive habits to himself; only allowing them to truly come to life in him "inner sanctum," as his fiancé Renji jokingly called it. The kitchen was indeed Ichigo's home within the home; here he was able to control the cleanliness to extremes. However, maintaining an extremely clean kitchen made his compulsive behavior constructive rather than "an enormous waste of time," as his previous boss had politely deemed such <em>unique<em> behavior.

One small hand felt blindly to its owner's left until fingertips grazed over each crimini mushroom. Prodding tentatively at the domed tops to test for remaining moisture and firmness, Ichigo began his in-depth analysis of every mushroom, meticulously picking out the imperfect from the bunch and casting them aside. Working through each preparatory task diligently, Ichigo began slicing a precise fifth of the mushrooms into perfect, evenly sized pieces while the larger portion, already diced, sat in the browning butter, their rich earthy scent mixing with the deep, but muted overtone of butter.

The soft murmur coming from the bubbling saucepan accompanied the repetitive tap of the paring knife at each precise slice. His hands moved methodically until one horribly misshapen mushroom caused Ichigo's carefully constructed system to fall apart. Ichigo's perfection in the kitchen came to an end as the sharp tip of the paring knife met the tender flesh of his left palm, just barely miscalculating trajectory required to slice the last mushroom into seven flawless sections, the fifth piece now uneven and jagged. Adding insult to injury, a single drop of blood met with the pristine white marble counter, sullying the innocent surface.

As Ichigo looked down at his palm in irritation to inspect the damage, the faint sound of West Haven's six o'clock train whistle sounded off in the distance. Never had a sound so innocent brought such tragedy. Eyes no longer able to focus on anything but his hand, Ichigo continued to stare fixedly at the sharp red line striping his otherwise flawless pale peach skin. The slow trails of crimson making their way between fingers and dripping from fingertips to collect on the floor brought Ichigo back to the present. His hands began to shake as red memories flashed by one by one, flickering disconnectedly like an old film reel. Ichigo moved to grab bleach and disinfectant as his mind focused on one distinct memory of red, and the piercing shriek of a train. Gazing about the room with both products in hand, his blood continued to drip from his fingertips, but all he could see was _red_. The pale golden-yellow walls were now smeared in the red of the past, and his pristine white counters were coated in sticky, congealed blood, brown and flaking along the edges where pools of blood appeared to thin and dry.

* * *

><p>"Ichigo…what the hell are you doing?" The question slipped out before Renji could reign himself in. He watched warily as Ichigo noticeably jerked at the sudden sound of his voice and turned his upper body around slowly until just his face was visible. The erratic expression he found drew Renji closer, the concern he felt at discovering Ichigo hunched over the sink tripling once he saw his hands. His delicate and childlike hands that he had held, kissed and then placed a small gold band on not but three months ago were destroyed. His beautiful pale skin that freckled over in the summer, even down to the fingers was no longer visible. Instead raw, jagged ribbons of flesh, dyed red with Ichigo's blood covered the delicate bone structure. What little fleshy tissue remained on his hands had puckered and blistered over from what appeared to be an acute chemical burn.<p>

His right hand held what he assumed was once a brand new pad of steel wool, one of Ichi's favorite cleaning utensils. The reflective silver of the steel no longer held its shape; his hands had obviously ripped it out of the tight manufactured coil while he had been preoccupied shredding his own flesh. Renji stood transfixed, watching Ichi's hands as they continued to dunk into the bleach and then rise once more, hands working frantically over the remnants of steel wool, further tearing flesh from bone as blood spilled into the sink, coloring the water a dull rosy blush. Ichi's lips continued to move soundlessly, forming the word "clean" in metered triplicate.

Renji couldn't understand what happened, what had caused such a drastic change in his fiancé. He would be the first to admit that his compulsive tendencies were a little unusual, but nothing this unnerving had happened in his four years living with Ichigo. Renji wasn't sure what to do in such an unusual situation, but he assumed calling 911 was the best place to start. Grimacing as he watched his fiancée's body continue to shake, he reached into his jeans pocket so he could call an ambulance for Ichigo and cursed his horrible luck; _I left my damn phone at work. Great, now what? _Watching him rinse and repeat this personal torture once more Renji carefully moved to her side. He could see in Ichigo's rigid posture that he was wound tight, a coil ready to spring at slightest provocation. Any sudden movement or physical contact seemed sure to cause more harm than he had already inflicted upon himself. Picking his words cautiously so as not to repeat another mindless blunder, Renji managed to ask calmly, "Ichi…what happened here?"

Renji watched in awe as Ichigo's eyes lost focus, pupils dilating as the trembling grew more intense and silent tears slid down graceful cheekbones. His lips finally ceased their relentless repetition as he choked out a strangled sob at Renji's question. Ichigo grew eerily quiet at the sound of his own cry and turned his body to face Renji completely and the coil snapped, his body lost its tight control as he collapsed into Renji's arms. Whispering raggedly into his now bleach stained shirtfront Ichigo dazedly questioned, "Don't you see it Renji?"

"See what, Ichi?" he asked tentatively. Ichigo clutched at his lapel with more force than he expected given the state of his hands and whimpered his explanation into Renji's chest, "The blood. The blood is everywhere! Don't you see it? The walls are covered, I tried to get it off but I couldn't and then I saw my hands. Oh Renji, can't you see the blood on my hands? It won't come off. I just can't get it off. It won't come off. Why can't I get it off, Ren?" Ichigo drew in another gasping breath as he rambled on, "I…I…I. can't wash her blood from my hands."

"Whose blood, Ichi? Whose blood can't you wash off?" Renji couldn't understand what he was talking about; the only blood in the room was his, smears and smudges of deep red dotted across the white tile floor and usually pristine cabinets. The stains grew in number as his eye traveled toward the sink and where he had come across his absurd breakdown. Having noticed Ichigo growing still and quiet, Renji shook his small, delicate shoulders to ask once more, "Ichigo, babe…whose blood is it?" Ichigo managed to wheeze out one final answer before losing consciousness, "It's _hers._"


End file.
